


Scent

by silentfort



Series: Scent [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alien Sex, Anthropomorphic, Blow Jobs, Furry, Intercrural Sex, No beta we die like mne, No use of y/n, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Original Character, Size Difference, Touch-Starved, no face reveal, please read author's notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfort/pseuds/silentfort
Summary: The creature in the chair is huge, one three jointed leg propped on the edge of the seat and the other folded awkwardly under it, a lean torso slouched to fit, and the head ducked as if the ceiling is too low for comfort. The shoulders are broad, arms long, and the hand on the armrest flexes to reveal fingertips that end in claws. It’s still streaked in mud, its cut-off overalls crusted in it, but under the patchwork of drying swamp the fur on its body is snow white. It tilts its head, grinning to reveal fangs almost as long as his finger.(or, another "you're the bounty that got the best of him" fic, where you're also a seven foot tall leonine alien creature.)
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: Scent [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853215
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Scent

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know anything about Star Wars and I don’t care to learn.
> 
> This fic has human-and-anthro sex. They’re a bipedal, sentient alien, and not an animal. However, they do have a tail, fur, whiskers, the works. That may not be for you.

_He takes another step, wincing as he feels his boot sinking into the mud. The helmet’s nightvision sparkles with insects swooping around the marsh, hovering and swarming just close enough for him to hear the whine of tiny wings. Something slimy jumps from one piece of solid ground to the next, and he ignores it as he takes another agonisingly slow step. The tracking fob, set to silent mode, buzzes angrily in his hand. He shifts his weight, turning to look -_

\- _and stumbles backwards as something tall and vast rises out of the swamp at his feet, streaming water and mud and reaching out for him. He falls, rolling to the side to get clear, but suddenly he’s sinking into the marsh, dark water closing over his head and an alarm blaring in his ear as his intake filter is choked with mud. He flails, panicked, and feels a jerk as his cape snags on something -_

_When he comes to he sits up with a snarl, turning his head to look for his attacker, one hand reaching for his blaster. But his blaster is clogged with mud and weeds. And he’s alone. He tries to breathe. His helmet whines in protest, air wheezing through the vents. Carefully, with a second look over his shoulder, he lifts it off, taking a deep breath and feeling his head clear with the intake of oxygen._

_The tracking fob is quiet. Whether it’s broken, or the quarry is just long distant, he’s not sure. Either way, he has to get back to the ship and clear out his equipment before he’ll be able to do any more hunting._

_With a heavy sigh, he hauls himself to his feet._

***

It’s difficult to sort out scents over the reek of swamp mud, so you hear the Mandalorian before you smell him. You go still as his footsteps trudge up the ramp. Light comes up through the cockpit hatch for a moment, then there’s a loud sparking noise and a curse as the lights in the hold overload and die. You wait. He swears again, and you hear a metallic thunk as if he’s kicked something.

You relax, just a little. Your hotwiring worked, and it seems he didn’t notice the mud you tracked into the ship.

A series of thumps and a long hydraulic hiss tell you he’s found the door controls and is raising the ramp. Light flickers up through the hatch - oops, you forgot his helmet has a head lamp - but thankfully it too sparks and dies.

“Kriff this,” he growls. You grin.

You wait. When you finally hear the drone of the sonic shower resonate through the floor, you turn to the window and rush through the ignition sequence. The ship rumbles around you and the stars draw closer, clouds falling away as you leave the planet and your past behind.

The sonic shower is still running, but something about it sounds different.

You plot in your course and switch on the autopilot, then rest your right hand on the arm of the pilot’s chair. You don’t turn your head. “You don’t want to do that.”

His voice is flattened by static, but you can scent the anger clear as day. “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what I do and don’t want.”

Very slowly, you turn the chair until you can see him.

 _The creature in the chair is huge, one three jointed leg propped on the edge of the seat and the other folded awkwardly under it, a lean torso slouched to fit, and the head ducked as if the ceiling is too low for comfort. The shoulders are broad, arms long, and the hand on the armrest flexes to reveal fingertips that end in claws_ _. It’s still streaked in mud, its cut-off overalls crusted in it, but under the patchwork of drying swamp the fur on its body is snow white. It tilts its head, grinning to reveal fangs almost as long as his finger._

“You sure about that?”

The Mandalorian doesn’t lower the blaster. It’s a fresh one from the weapons locker, you can see the lights of the console shining on its surface. They shine on his skin too, his arms and chest bare and damp with swamp water. It seems when he came out of the shower he stopped for pants and his helmet, but nothing else.

“I’m sure.” His voice is perfectly level.

“I take it your _client_ didn’t tell you much about my race, if you think that’s going to help you.”

He doesn’t lower the blaster, but you hear a small hitch in his breath.

“What information am I missing, then?”

“Our response to pain. You’re a human, right? Something hurts you, you flinch. Something hurts me? I get angry.”

The blaster doesn’t waver. You wonder how long it’ll take for his arm to tire.

“So?” he asks. “That meant to scare me?”

Slowly, you lift your left hand. The two smallest fingers have been mangled, injured then healed badly so they now rest in permanent hooks. “Workplace accident. Three brothers had to hold me down. I still broke someone’s jaw. And I’m what’s considered a weakling.”

There’s no visible reaction, but you hear his pulse speed up. 

You continue, voice flat. “I’m from a race that was cloned to be disposable cannon fodder. Something hurts us, we keep fighting until we fall apart.” You gesture to the blaster. “I checked your armoury. You don’t have anything big enough to kill me in one hit. And we’re floating in a little metal box in the vastness of space. You like those odds?”

He lowers the blaster, finally, but while he straightens he doesn’t relax. “What do you want?”

“Well, first on the list was getting off that bug infested skughole, so thanks for helping with that. Second, I’m hoping I can convince you not to turn me in to your client.”

“He says you attacked him.”

“Oh yeah I definitely took a piece out of his arm,” you shrug. “Fool had it coming.”

He stiffens, the helmet lifts to look at you more directly. “How do you figure that?”

You look away, feeling blood rise to your face. Hopefully the light in here is too dim for him to see your ears and nose going pink.

“He said,” the Mandalorian continues, “that lionae go into heats. That when he turned you down you went into a rage.”

You grip the arms of the pilot’s chair, feeling your claws puncture the upholstery. “He’s a _liar_ is what he is. He thought me being a lionae meant I’d fuck anything with a pulse. And he didn’t like ‘no’ for an answer.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Hence, the attack?”

You look back at him. Faint starlight is shining on the damp curve of his shoulder, the rust red paint on his helmet. Everything seems hyperreal and too bright, and you realise your pupils must be flooded. You’re more angry than you thought. “He touched my face.”

His posture changes instantly. His grip on the blaster loosens, his breath comes easier. “Alright.” He waves his empty hand at the console. “So where are we headed?”

You blink, feeling like you’d braced for an impact that didn’t come. As you slowly relax, sitting straighter in the chair, your vision goes back to normal. You clear your throat. “Uh, a space station I worked at once. There’s a neat stockpile of currency I was thinking of reclaiming.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“It’s beskar,” you glance at him again as his pulse stutters. “You’re a Mandalorian, right? I heard beskar was important to you.”

His empty hand flexes a little. “Yeah,” even through the static, his voice sounds thick. “Yeah it is.”

“Alright then,” you lean back in the chair, looking out the window. “I’ll stay up here if you want to finish showering. Let me know when it’s clear to come down.”

His pulse jumps, and you catch a flood of his scent as the blood rushes to the surface of his skin. You smirk to yourself as he goes below.

***

You keep a wary distance from each other, as much as the close quarters will allow. You commandeer the fresher long enough to comb the last of the dried mud out of your mane and tail, throwing your filthy overalls in the corner for when you’re not so tired. There’s a storage area behind the cockpit where you curl up for a few cramped hours of sleep, grateful at least for a space of dark and quiet when you’re not either working or running for your life. 

By the time you finally slink out into the hold, footpads scuffing on the floorplates, you find him sitting on a crate and cleaning out the blaster that was dunked in the swamp. The lights gleam on his armour, picking out in silver the places where the red paint has been scratched away. It’s not beskar, only durasteel. Maybe he can’t afford the real thing. Maybe he hasn’t earned it yet.

“There’s food,” he says, not looking up. “You haven’t eaten since we took off.”

“Thanks,” you’re surprised. You have part of a ration brick in the pack you hid away when you snuck aboard, and were expecting to make it last the rest of the trip. You take the portion he pushes across the small table. 

_The creature looms over him, bracing its weight on the edge of the table with one massive hand, and plucks up the food in the three functional fingers of the other. Its white fur is shockingly bright even in the dim auxiliary lights he’s been able to rig up, and is all the more shocking for the fact that it’s naked. He can’t see anything that requires covering, but the unbroken expanse of fur from its face to its feet makes him want to squirm. The torn and mended pants are still in the corner of the fresher, crusted in dirt. Maybe it doesn’t have any other clothes._

The food is gone in two bites, and you put the dish back down quietly, feeling awkward. “Have you slept?” you ask, before he comments.

“Had to clean out my gear,” one shoulder shrugs. “It wasn’t designed for swimming.”

You crouch down on your haunches, back against the wall and elbows resting on your knees. You’re still at eye level with him. “I’m sorry about that. I needed to get away from you, obviously, but I didn’t mean for you to sink.”

He shrugs again, but doesn’t say anything. You’re considering how you might ask for something to drink when he goes still, lowers his hands to the table. “When I was underwater, I thought my cape snagged on something. Was that you?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want you to drown.”

The helmet turns toward you. His pulse hasn’t changed, but he smells… different. It’s easy to catch the scent of things like anger, fear, lust, but this is more subtle. You think maybe he’s confused.

“You can obviously fly this ship yourself,” he says, slowly. “Why risk leaving me alive?”

Your nape bristles, your ears flick backward. “I know people often say we’re monsters. But I’m not. Why should I kill you when you hadn’t done anything to me?”

“I was hunting you.”

“So?”

He looks away. He snaps some part of the blaster back into place and sets it down. “I never asked your name.”

You take a breath, lift your ears and do your best to present a calmer expression. He seems to be trying to be polite to you, you should meet him halfway. “It’s Taelir.”

“And are you, uh,” he reaches for the blaster again, toys with it, puts it down. That blush-smell is back again, and you find yourself smiling.

“What’s my gender? Is that what you’re trying to ask?”

“I don’t usually talk to anyone long enough for it to come up.” He shrugs, “Sorry.”

You wave a hand dismissively, let your head thunk back against the wall. “There’s not a word for it in basic. Use ‘they’ if you want a pronoun.”

“Oh,” the helmet looks away from you again. “Do… do you need to borrow some clothes?”

You look back at him, ears up in surprise. His pulse is loud, his shoulders tense, and you suddenly realise the picture you both make. The Mandalorian in layers and layers of cloth and steel. You wearing nothing but your fur. “Why?” you feign innocence for a moment. “Does this bother you?”

His pulse leaps again, but he doesn’t move. 

You watch him for a long, still moment, then relent. It seems he’s not used to being teased, and you find you don’t want him to think badly of you. Especially given what your previous employer likely told him about your kind. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think anything of yours is made to fit a tail. I’ll wear a blanket or something if it makes you more comfortable.”

When he doesn’t answer you get to your feet, intending to drag your pack out of its hiding place so you can drape your much-darned wrap around your waist, even if it’ll be too warm for comfort. But when you stand he clears his throat, helmet still apparently looking at the table.

“It’s fine. Wear whatever you want. Or don’t.”

You stop, looking down.

“You sure?”

He glances up to you.

_Keeping the helmet lifted as if he’s looking into their face he lets his gaze move elsewhere, looking over the smooth gloss of fur across the chest, down the stomach. It’s a little shaggier at the apex of the thighs, but that’s the only indication that there might be something there._

_The head tilts, pointed ears pricked up and forward. The eyes, pupils a faded red, narrow a little. When they speak,_ t _he basic comes out thickly accented through sharp teeth, the voice rumbling low. He’d thought to read it as male, at first, but now he thinks maybe the pitch is due to the creature’s size. They speak again, and he blinks._

“Sorry, what?”

You feel your nostrils flare at the rising scent of him. It’s more than just a blush, now. “I said, you look like you’d rather I wear something.”

“He said,” he starts, and despite the non sequitur you’re sure he’s talking about the client, “that you were female.”

That makes you laugh. You laugh hard enough to fall back against the wall behind you, hands on your thighs and your head dropped between your shoulders. “ _Female?_ ”

He’s watching you closely, frozen in place, and you gasp for air.

“Mother- _maker_ that’s a good one. Female!”

“…I’ve said something inappropriate.”

“No, it’s not you,” you wave a hand at him. “Just, _kriff_. I almost wish I _had_ agreed to sleep with him, he’d have had the shock of his life.”

A flood of scent washes over your tongue and you close your mouth with a snap, looking up at him again. He hasn’t moved at all, but his pulse is thrumming and his scent is rich, sharp and electric all at once. You inhale without meaning to and the room is suddenly a little brighter.

He wants you. He wants you and it flicks a switch at the base of your brain that says _yes_.

But why? What did you do to make his heart race, his hands clench just a little on the table, his blood - he twitches his leg as if he wants to move them closer together and you turn your face away from him. It strikes you suddenly how profoundly unfair this it for him, he’s hidden his face and for most people that would be enough to hide his thoughts, but your race was built to hunt by scent and sound. There’s nothing, in these close quarters, that he can keep from you.

Abruptly he stands, gathering his tools with mechanical precision. The blaster goes back into the weapons locker, everything else into a series of drawers in the same cabinet. He moves so suddenly that it’s not until his boots are disappearing through the hatch behind the cockpit that you can even think to stand upright and stare after him.

***

He comes down the ladder from the cockpit, and you look up from where you’re curled against the relative softness of a pile of cargo webbing. He crosses the hold, and the helmet tilts down just a little as he looks at you.

“I -” he cuts himself off. Takes a breath, starts again. “I just wanted to say, I get it. Why you attacked that guy.”

You tilt your head, waiting. You can hear his heart thudding. He smells just as good as before, but you have a better handle on your response to him now.

“The face thing,” he continues, as you stay silent. “I just,” he waves one hand vaguely at the helmet. “I get it. I took an oath when I put this on, and no one’s seen my face since.”

“How long ago was that?”

There’s a slow, subtle slump to his shoulders, the helmet dips a little as he looks away from your face. “A while.”

Well that’s not a helpful metric. You have trouble gauging the ages of humans at the best of times; they mature so slowly compared to you. He’s old enough to carry weariness in his bones, at least. But then, so are you.

“I had a question for you,” he starts, leaning back on the wall behind him and hooking his thumbs in his belt. “If that’s alright.”

You nod, bracing for some follow up to the conversation you were having before.

“I’ve heard of sorcerers who can read minds. Are you one of them?”

You blink. That was unexpected. “No.”

“Then how are you reading mine?”

“Ah,” you lift a hand to the back of your head, pull lightly at the fur there. “Technically I’m not?”

He tilts his head, obviously unimpressed.

You sigh. “I can hear your heartbeat, your breathing. I can… smell you. And I can guess.” You let your hand fall. “I’m sorry, it’s not something I can shut off doing.”

He shifts his hips, taking his weight on one leg and crossing the other at the ankle. The helmet stares at you. “So. Guess.”

You breathe in.

_They inhale, and he suppresses a shiver to see the pupils expand, irises becoming a ring of rust red around pure black. They stand. Muscles bunch and flow, the head lowering and ears pricked up, mouth open just a little and whiskers craned forward. They lean close, inhale again, and one arm comes up to brace on the bulkhead above him. Crowded into the wall, he swallows, trying to get his breathing under control. Last time he was this close to a living thing he was trying not to die. He tilts his head, and finds himself at eye level with the pulse he can see thumping even through the shaggy fur of the creature’s throat. His cock twitches, and he swallows with a throat gone dry._

Before you think to move you’re on your feet, stepping close enough to lean over him, lowering your muzzle alongside the cold steel of the helmet and feeling his heat seep through his clothes. The layers of scent wash over you, the grease of armour polish and the brightness of steel, the trace of swamp water he couldn’t quite get out of his canvas padding, and the sharp salt tang of his sweat. Nervous, and excited. He’s breathing faster. When you pur, deep in your throat, his heartbeat stutters. You lean back just far enough to look down at him.

“I’m guessing you’re into this.”

He doesn’t speak but he does jerk a nod.

“So, no one’s seen your face. You fuck with the helmet on?”

His spine goes stiff, his breath stops for a moment. You stay very still, watching him.

“I -” he takes a sudden deep breath. “Or in the dark.”

_They grin, fluoros gleaming on white fangs and whiter fur. He bites his lip._

“That a suggestion?”

The helmet turns to the side, and you dip your mouth a little closer to the side of his neck to breathe in. He shudders, clears his throat.

“I can’t reach the controls from here.”

You step back, giving him just enough room to slip away from you and to the control panel by the ladder. The lights fade out and the hold is plunged into darkness.

“H-how good is your night vision?” his voice sounds strained, and you tilt your head to hear it better. “What can you see?”

“Give me a moment.” You blink in the pitch black, waiting for your eyes to adjust. Slowly grey shapes rise out of the dark, vague and misleading. “Not much.”

You hear his boots on the floorplates as he moves closer. “Could you find me?”

“Oh, that’s not hard,” you take two long steps, reaching to catch one of his arms. Your whole hand wraps around his bicep, and you feel him tremble under your palm. “Even blinded I could hear you well enough for that.”

He exhales shakily in what might be a laugh. “Alright then, how many fingers am I holding up?”

You squint, “Three.” When you reach out with your other hand to find his, you find two fingers extended.

“Good enough,” he unfurls his fist, letting go of your hand. You hear the creak of leather as he begins to slide off the glove.

“Thank the gods for loopholes,” you smile. “Any rules I should know, besides not seeing you?”

“No,” there’s a second metal thunk as he puts the other glove down on the table. “Any rules I should know, besides not touching your face?”

“Oh, that’s not a rule for you.”

He freezes. “Why not?”

You reach out carefully, find a forearm, a hand. You pull him a little closer, and place his open palm on your chest. “Because I want you to.”

His fingers spread, combing through your fur. He’s warm, and as you inhale his scent again he reaches out with his other hand, finding your neck, your shoulder. The back of your head.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

_He makes a careful fist in the longer fur of the unkempt mane and the creature makes that sound again, almost a growl in the back of its throat, and it grips the edges of his chest plate with claws extended. It snarls, and his blood sings in response._

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

He lets go, suddenly moving quickly to undress. You listen closely, trying to keep track of the pieces of armour as he puts them aside. Vambraces, epaulets, gunbelt, greaves, the heavier sound of his chest and backplates. Finally he stills. You hear the static hiss through the helmet as he inhales -

_\- and exhales into open air. The moment he’s placed the helmet down the creature takes hold of him, lifting him bodily to sit on one of the crates against the opposite wall, parting his knees with hands that easily span the muscles of his thighs and leaning into his space, breath hot against the exposed skin of his throat. His hands tangle into their mane, and they whine._

You open your mouth, tasting his desire for you lush on your tongue, silky in your lungs. “You want to tap out, any time?” you manage, “just let me know. No hard feelings.”

“I -” he tugs on your mane and you let him pull you closer, startled by the sudden impact of his forehead against yours. He takes a breath of your air. “I want this. You’ll just have to…” a hesitation. “You’ll have to show me how.”

Something lurches in you at the uncertainty in his voice, the almost unnoticeable quaver. You'd wager he doesn't often, if ever, own up to how he's feeling. “Alright,” you nuzzle your face against his, revelling in the warmth of his smooth skin and the rich smell of his sweat damp hair. It's intoxicating. “I'll take care of you.”

He shudders at the break in your voice, hooking one boot around your waist and hitching himself closer to you, raking fingertips down your shoulders and arms. You pull at the hem of his shirt and he obediently lifts his arms, letting you haul the two layers off at once. You drag the back of your hand down the length of his chest, and he gasps. 

“That alright?” 

There's movement, and you can just make out enough of his shape to see him nod.

“It's just - a lot. You looked so soft, but I wasn't expecting…” his hands encircle your wrist, stroke the shorter fur on the underside.

“You thought about touching me?”

His skin flushes hot enough for you to feel it on your tongue.

“Y-yes.”

“Well, now's your chance.”

“Where…?”

You lean in to lip gently at his neck, feeling muscles bunch and jump in his shoulder as your whiskers brush his skin. “Wherever you'd like. Just don't tug my tail too hard.”

He laughs quietly, presses his face into the thick mane under your chin, nuzzling you in turn. His hands trace up your arms, smooth down your chest and stomach, linger at your hips, his thumbs fitting into the groove of muscle over the bone. He presses his forehead against your collarbone. Takes a breath. Takes another.

There's a twist to the scent of him now, along with the clench of his jaw you think maybe he's embarrassed.

“Do you need more direction?” 

A nod.

You take one of his wrists, turn his palm inward against you and slide it across your belly. Your length has already been unsheathing as you've been growing harder, as his skin brushes against yours, impossibly smooth, you grunt. He slowly wraps his fingers around your shaft. They don't meet.

“ _Kriff_ ,” he breathes. “How do I - ?”

You take his other wrist, lifting his hand to your face and unfolding it. You drop your muzzle to his palm, savouring the rich smell of his skin, before parting your lips and flicking your tongue against him. He shivers. You begin to lave at his palm, gliding your tongue from the base of his wrist to the tips of his fingers slowly, again and again. He presses his face against your throat, breathing heavily, the hand that holds your shaft twitching. You come up for air, and his head lolls against your shoulder. But even dazed as he is, he lowers his slick hand to wrap around you, grasping. You inhale sharply.

“You’re so smooth,” you manage, cupping the back of his head in one hand and bracing yourself with the other on his thigh as he begins to stroke you, two handed. He moves slowly, steadily, as if the motion at least isn't new to him. His thumb slips over the slender tip of your cock, fumbling just a little as if he was expecting a different shape.

“Sorry,” he whispers against your throat, breath hot and damp through the thicker fur of your mane.

You tighten your hand on the back of his neck, and he whines, shifting on the crate. You take a breath, try to clear your head, “You alright?”

“These pants,” he sounds like he’s smiling, “they’re a little tight.”

You lean back, dipping your head. Even under the lingeringly faint scent of swamp water on his clothes you can smell his arousal, rich and sharp. You lick your lips, and he goes breathlessly silent.

“Let’s fix that, shall we?”

He makes some strangled sound of agreement, and you step close, cupping the back of his thighs in your hands to heft him up against your chest, his arms going automatically over your shoulders and his legs hooking around your waist. You can feel the heat and the hardness of him against your belly, burning. He writhes, head thrown back, gasping.

“ _Please_.”

You turn, bending your knees to crouch, cradling him against you with one arm as you catch your weight with the other, slowly laying him down on his back on the floor. He shudders as his flushed skin makes contact with the cool metal plating, arching his spine to press against you.

“Do you trust me?”

“What?” his voice is shaky.

You let your head drop, muzzle dragging against the smooth skin of his shoulder, the rough stubble at his throat. You flick your tongue at the sweat there, and he gasps. You open your mouth, wide, wider, taking his jaw in your teeth with infinite gentleness, and he moans.

His pulse ricochets in your mouth, his heartbeat almost thunder in your ears. His hands, shaking, come up to touch your head, winding into your mane. But he doesn’t pull you away.

“I trust you.”

Letting go, you begin to move down his body, his muscles twitching as your whiskers whisper over sensitive skin. The flood of his scent is better than any intoxicant. By the time you’re at his waist you’re hardly able to control your fingers, and for a long moment you seriously consider ripping through his clothes with your teeth. Thankfully he thinks to help you, unfastening them and lifting his hips, already pushing them down before you think to pull them the rest of the way. Where they promptly get stuck.

“Kriff,” he laughs, helplessly, “my boots, sorry, help me up.”

You stifle a laugh and sit back on your haunches, pulling him upright. There’s a few moments of rustling before two thuds off to one side as he throws the boots away, and a softer flump as the pants follow them.

“Are you finally naked, now?” you manage.

“Here,” his hand finds your shoulder, your jaw. “Check for yourself.”

You press him back down, finding him by scent this time. Rich, and dark, and sharp and sweet on your tongue, in your lungs. You could get used to this. You might never get tired of it. As your whiskers brush against the bare skin of his hip he swears softly, his hand clenching in your mane. You inhale deeply.

In the pitch darkness, the scent almost has colour. It makes you think of the rust red of his armour, shot through with silver.

You lave him from root to tip. He stifles a shout, sounding like his hand is clapped over his mouth. You reach up, catch his wrist and hold it firmly.

“None of that. I want to hear you.”

His pulse, if possible, trips even faster. His arousal is edged in desperation now, fast overwhelming the spike of embarrassment.

You open your mouth, flicking your tongue out to taste him. He bucks, and you catch his hip in your other hand, pressing him into the floor. Pinned under you, he whines, his arm flexing in your grip. His other hand, still cradling the side of your head, shakily traces the shape of your ear. You take a moment to shift, pressing your face into the palm of his hand.

He rests his thumb at the edge of your eye, his fingers spanning your cheek and threading into the edge of your mane. You stay there for a long, still, moment.

When you dip your head again the slide of his hand over the curve of your skull is both more confident and more careful, and something about the care he takes gentles you. You release his wrist, instead dragging your fingers down his flank and across to the root of him, easily circling him with finger and thumb. He breathes in sharply, and you take him into your mouth in one smooth motion.

Both his hands clench in your mane, pulling without meaning to, and you pur deep in your chest. If possible, he almost tastes better than he smells, sharp and vital and alive. His skin is impossibly smooth on your tongue. His body is so much smaller than yours that it’s easy to swallow him to the root, framing his hips with your hands as he shifts desperately under you. You press him against the roof of your mouth with your tongue, your head beginning to rise and fall.

He’s swearing constantly now, or at least you assume he is, he hasn’t been speaking basic for a while. He gasps for air as your tongue swirls around the head of his cock, the muscles of his stomach shudder against your nose as you drop down again. His hands, seized tightly, are shaking. You lick and swallow and hum in pleasure, and when you do he moans loud enough to drown you out.

“I - fuck, fuck - please, wait -”

You draw away from him immediately, blinking up at the vague grey shape of him in the darkness. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just,” a thump which you guess is his head falling back against the floor. “I was getting close, that’s all.”

“I thought that was the point.”

He makes one of those breathless not-quite laughs again. “I mean, yeah, I guess, I just…” he rallies, tries again. “I wanted to check if you wanted to do something else.”

And isn’t that a thought? But given the difference in size, there’s not much you can do without hurting him. You shift, aware again of how desperately hard you’ve grown.

_“There is one option,” their voice has grown rough, and he shivers, lifting his head. To his eyes, the creature is little more than a ghost against the shadows of the hold. But the heat of them against his sweat cooled skin is searing, the texture of their palm against his hip like the leather of his gloves, the lashing of their tail against his leg a constant surprise._

_“What is it?”_

_The head drops, and teeth rest briefly against his belly. He could die right here, right now._

_“Do you trust me?”_

_He runs a hand over the soft, tangled mane, the delicate structure of the pointed ear._

_“Yes.”_

You shift, pushing yourself a little further down his body and sliding your hands down his thighs, easing his legs a little apart. You nuzzle the base of his cock, lower, savouring the rich scent of him as he whimpers. His hair is clipped short and you smooth your tongue over it, tasting sweat and musk as you lap at the crease of his thigh. He squirms, hands fisting in your hair, but he doesn’t protest. You move a little lower, licking a long, wet stripe up the inner side of his thigh.

The muscle spasms under your mouth, and he gasps, “What -?”

“I can’t penetrate you without hurting you,” you admit, and although you hear him inhale you press on before he can offer something reckless. “But between your legs will also work.”

“Uh,” he shifts, perhaps getting up on his elbows. “I have, uh. Something that might make that easier?”

Just for symmetry’s sake, you drag your tongue up his other thigh, and he laughs. You get to your knees, lean back. “Well, go on then.”

He moves, and the scent of him swirls through the air as he steps away. There are sounds of metal, the scent of ammunition, and when he comes back he finds your hand in the dark to press something into it. You run your fingers over the round, smooth jar, finding the top and flicking it open. It smells suitably bland, not armour polish but something like it.

“This won’t hurt your skin?” you make sure.

“No,” is all he says, but that spike of embarrassment is painfully sharp. It seems he knows from experience.

And isn’t _that_ a thought, you smile, wondering what he’d look like laid out in his bunk, as naked as this and with a fist around himself? He clearly lives alone here. How often does he -?

But that’s a thought for another time. You reach out, find the warmth of his flank, his side, his ribs. Standing before you like this, he’s still not all that much taller than you are kneeling. You hand him back the jar, and hold your hand out to him palm up.

"Into my hand, here.”

It’s cool, as he pours it over your fingers and palm, initially thick but rapidly losing viscosity in the heat of your hand.

“Legs apart.”

A shuffle of movement. You cup your palm under him and he inhales sharply, exhaling in a slow shudder as you slide your hand up and over his cock, slicking him from root to tip. You glide the touch back down to the apex of his thighs, then smooth in a long stroke up one leg and down the other. He catches your shoulders for balance, trying not to flinch away from you.

“Sorry, just -”

“Sensitive?”

His cheek is so near yours that his hair brushes your face when he nods. You don’t turn your head, just hold your hand palm up against his stomach. “Again.”

“For you?”

“Yes.”

“… Can I?”

That scent of him again, the deliciously complicated richness of arousal, and the unsure lilt in his voice. You catch your breath.

“Yes.”

He shifts, kneels, and when his hands find you - as hard as you’ve ever been - you stop breathing without meaning to. His skin is smooth, soft, and slick, and he slides his palms up the length of you as if he’d not done it for the first time barely a moment ago. You drop your head to his shoulder, a whine coming quite unbidden from deep in your chest. He strokes you again, and again, and when his fist grips at the tip with a practiced twist you catch his waist in your hands, claws out and just pricking his skin. He stops, and you swear you can _smell_ him grinning.

You move, lifting him to his feet before turning him, surging up on your knees until your chest meets his back, your face pressed against his shoulder blade. His heart thunders against your cheek. “Relax,” you manage to say, and ease backwards until you’re resting on your haunches and he’s balanced in your lap. Your cock juts up against the inside of one thigh, and the muscle in his leg flexes.

You lean back a little further, letting him rest more of his weight on your chest. This close you can feel every gasp of his breath as if in your own lungs. You close your eyes, pressing your muzzle into the damp curls of hair at the back of his neck, his throat, the underside of his jaw. He doesn’t smell like rust red now, but like silver and dark blue, like polished beskar under a cloudy sky.

“Do I -?” his knees twitch closer together. You reach to support him there, a hand cupped around the back of each thigh, and ease them closed around you.

The heat is almost unbearable. He’s slick, and smooth, and as you press his thighs together the muscles clench experimentally. You bite back a moan. He lets his head fall back against your shoulder, laughing softly.

“None of that.” He reaches, finds where your length juts up between his legs, close to the apex of his thighs. He takes you - _and himself_ , mother-Maker - in both hands. “I want to hear you.”

You snarl between clenched teeth, lift his thighs just enough to give yourself room, and thrust upwards. As you slide against the cleft of his ass he moans, although you barely hear it over the slamming of his pulse in your ears.

He’s all heat and slick, impossibly, unutterably smooth against you, scent as rich as blood and bright as beskar. His voice in your ear is ragged, snatches of words you don’t understand and some curses that you do. When you open your mouth and let your teeth rest against the thudding of his pulse in his throat he moans again, and pleads.

You shift your angle, dragging harder against his skin as your hips snap upwards, and his thighs seize as he comes with a wordless gasp, hips stuttering as his grip falters. He turns his head as you let go your hold of his throat, pressing his mouth against the side of yours, his breath damp and hot through your fur. Your hands hold his thighs firm, thrust again, and once more, and you finally let go.

Curled over him, his body still cradled against your chest, you take a moment just to breathe. He doesn’t seem capable of much else either, lying spent in your arms. You blink in the dark. You watch the dim grey shape of him and listen to his pulse begin to slow, steady and tired. He stirs, turns his face into the side of your throat. Nuzzles blindly.

“You alright there?” you murmur. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Thank you.”

***

You lay the beskar in his open palm, the two bricks clinking together softly. 

“Hopefully that'll cover whatever the client was promising you, and the fuel for heading out of your way.” 

You're kidding of course, with half of what you just gave him you could have bought his ship several times over. He doesn't respond to the joke, just stares at the metal in his hand.

You clear your throat, trying for casual, “I guess that concludes our business then?”

He looks up at that, the helmet lifted suddenly to stare at you. “What?” 

“I mean,” you shrug, “I assume you don't have need of a passenger. And you'll have things to be doing. Get yourself a new helmet, maybe… ” you trail off. He's not moving. His scent has gone somehow cold. 

“That's it?”

Kriff. His voice is cold too. This is going all wrong.

Stiffly, he shoves the beskar somewhere inside his armour, and seems poised to turn away.

You grab his wrist. 

He stops, turns his head. 

Before you can think about it, you lift his gloved hand to your face, closing your eyes and rubbing your cheek against his palm. He inhales with a hiss of static, his fingers spasm.

“Don't go.” 

You blink at him, surprised by the raw edge to the words. He seems surprised at himself too, his breath hitching, but he doesn't pull his hand away. His palm slides down your neck, your shoulder, your arm, he takes your crooked hand in his. When he speaks again it’s softer, and the helmet doesn't glance up from where your hands are joined.

“Stay.”

You look at him, in rust red armour and mud stained cape. His pulse is loud. He smells like hunger, and the dark of space, and also like polished beskar. 

“Alright.” 

He looks up.

You hold his hand tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> (for disaster blogging of various fandoms you can find me at acrossthetracksrebounding.tumblr.com)


End file.
